


Dark Side

by Sherlocked_221B (McDanno50)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Sexual Content, Slash, Werewolf John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McDanno50/pseuds/Sherlocked_221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a werewolf. Wounded in action by more than just a bullet. Now he lives in London, solving crimes with his best friend Sherlock Holmes. His secret comes to light as all secrets do. But will John's feelings for Sherlock force him to reconcile with his true nature?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own 'Sherlock', the characters and general plot of the show all belong to their respectful owners. It was not my intention to offend anyone by the writing of this story. This multi-chapter story was not Beta'd or Brit-picked so please forgive any mistakes you may read. Tags are subject to change throughout the course of the story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain John Watson is just an Army doctor. But he becomes so much more.

John Watson didn’t consider himself a lucky man. After all, his mother died when he was a boy leaving him with a drunken father and an equally drunk sister. He worked hard to get out of the life set out for him by becoming a doctor, and then a soldier. Things worked out after that. He made the rank of Captain in no time; his fellow soldiers respected him and relied on him to treat their wounds. Despite the carnage he saw on a day-to-day basis John knew that the battlefield was where he belonged. Of course, that was when everything went to shit.

            He and his men were on a routine patrol when they were attacked by insurgents. They abandoned their vehicle and ran for the sand dunes. Bullets whizzed past their heads, shouts in English and Farsi echoed in the early morning darkness. Only John and four other soldiers remained once they dove behind the stone half-wall constructed on top of a dune. He called for back-up before shouting out orders while soldiers and the enemy fired. His men proved capable so John left them to it while he darted across the hot Afghanistan sand to reach the wounded. There was only one soldier still breathing albeit shallowly. John remembered his name, Lance Corporal Bruce Donovan, a young man from Sussex.

            “Corporal, hey Donovan, can you hear me?” John asked as he opened his pouch. He didn’t wait for an answer before prepping bandages.

            “Captain,” Bruce moaned weakly. “Am I dying?”

            John tried not to, but laughed anyway. “No way am I letting that happen. So just stay with me, okay?”

            The truth was that John didn’t know if the kid was going to pull through. The Corporal suffered two bullet wounds, one through his leg that had definitely nicked the femoral artery while the other was somewhere lodged in Donovan’s side. He kept quiet through his work, not letting the gunfire or shouting distract him. It was almost morning but the sky was still dark enough to make his work just a bit harder. He finished securing the Corporal’s leg first and moved on to the wound in his abdomen. He managed to remove the young man’s gear, reaching behind himself to grab his pouch when he felt it. A bullet tore through John’s left shoulder, knocking the wind out of him as he fell gracelessly to the sand perpendicular to Donovan. Echoes of the Corporal calling out for his fallen Captain, his doctor, the only person who could save him rang through John’s ears along with the rush of blood. His heart was pounding, his mouth gasping through the pain; it felt as if someone stuck him with a red hot brand straight through the flesh and proceeded to drill through bone.

            John tried to get up. He needed to get up. His men needed him, Donovan need him. He only made it to his knees but it was enough. He reached for the Corporal’s hand and placed it on the wound in his own shoulder.

            “Hold your hand there,” he commanded.

            The Corporal looked scared, his eyes wide even as he obeyed.

            He finished the job quickly enough despite the pain and weariness that slowed him down. Back-up was coming; he could hear the enemy retreating and his men cheering. He settled back to wait, falling on his arse wasn’t something he was proud of but he couldn’t be bothered to care as blood began seeping through his and Donovan’s fingers. He was losing consciousness, and chose to lie down even though his mind screamed for him not to. He looked up at the sky, purple and blue giving way as twilight neared its end. It was sort of fitting, John thought, even as he pled to God to _please let me live._

ꕻꕻꕻ

            When he woke he was back at camp. His first words were an inquiry after the Lance Corporal. His doctor, which was funny in itself because John was a doctor damn it, told him that Donovan pulled through. John’s relief threatened to overwhelm him only to succumb to numbness when the doctor reminded him of his own wounds. At first John was accepting of the fact that he had been shot, after all he was a soldier in a warzone, so it was bound to happen sometime.

            The doctor turned around to leave the medical tent, only to stop when John called out. “Doc,” he couldn’t remember the man’s name. “You said wounds, as in plural…”

            “Ah yes,” Friedman his nametag said. “When your men found you and Donovan, the Corporal said that a giant dog had been gnawing on your leg. Apparently the creature thought you were dead already. No worries though, the bite wounds are superficial and non-threatening.”

            John blinked. Thank God he didn’t feel that. “Right…Uhm…thank you Doctor Friedman.”

            The man smiled and left John alone to his thoughts along with a fair amount of pain.

ꕻꕻꕻ

            Just when everything was going well, gunshot not included, John developed a nasty infection. One honorable discharge later and he was put on a plane to London where a rehabilitation center for wounded vets welcomed him. The infection was eventually brought to heel with the proper medication while his shoulder was put through vigorous workouts in order to regain function. He was also sent to a therapist named Ella who diagnosed him with PTSD. John wasn’t stupid; of course he knew he had PTSD. But not for the reasons she and John’s sister Harry thought.

The psychosomatic limp Ella also diagnosed him with wasn’t all in his head despite his vigorous protests. John had been told by Donovan before he was invalided home that the dog that bit him was huge, only to be scared away when Donovan managed to get a shot off. Except when John looked at his leg nearly a month later he saw tiny silver scars not big enough to have come from a domestic cat let alone a huge wild dog. And so he ignored his leg as much as he could when forced to walk with a cane, focusing solely on his shoulder.

ꕻꕻꕻ

            He had been back in London for two months when John first changed. He didn’t remember much about the experience, only the searing pain that started in his leg where the dog bit him before the agony spread throughout his whole body.

            When he woke up he was naked and shivering beneath the kitchen table. His dingy flat was a mess, not that there was much to displace to begin with. There was hair everywhere, a brownish gray in color when John held it up to the fresh morning light. Apparently he had been passed out for several hours because he distinctly remembered it being just after sunset when the pain started.

            The logical part of his brain, the doctor in him, screamed at him to go to the hospital because something was so obviously wrong. The other part however, the suicidal war veteran decided against it. He would just have to wait and see if it happened again.

ꕻꕻꕻ

            It happened again and once more before John set up a camera in his flat. When he woke the following morning and watched the footage, he fell to his knees at what he saw. He was a werewolf. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is ever curious. John is forced to come clean.

            After two transformations John is closer than ever to the Wolf living inside him, no longer forgetting the experience when he changes back at dawn. He even goes so far as to communicate with the beast in his mind while he’s human. Ever since that revealing video he has done well to avoid discovery especially after meeting the world’s only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes is brilliant and supremely intelligent; a hard target to keep his secret from, but John manages even when their relationship grows from flatmates to best friends.

            He has been living at 221B Baker Street for six months when Sherlock finally grows curious.

            “John?”

            The man in question hums because he’s writing up their latest case on his blog when Sherlock finally decides to break his four hour silence.

            “We are friends, yes?”

            John looks up to see his flatmate pacing, back and forth through the sitting room which isn’t all that odd, but the curiosity and anxiety on the detective’s face most certainly is.

            “Of course we are Sherlock.”

            John’s quick and sure answer seems to put the young man at ease. He nods once before plopping down in his chair across from John. His steely eyed gaze unnerves most people but not John who just stares back.

            “Was there a point to that idiotic question, then?” John asks lightly. Usually when Sherlock tries to play the friend card it means the man has done something wrong and knows John will be upset.

            Even so, Sherlock manages to continuously surprise him. “I have been told that ‘honesty is the best policy’ especially when it comes to friendship.”

            John groans. “Oh God. What did you do now?”

            Sherlock accompanies a huff with an eye roll. “I haven’t done anything. I was merely trying to say that you can trust me.”

            Now John is confused. If he didn’t then John never would’ve accepted the offer to move in. Still, he sets his laptop aside for a more serious conversation than he originally thought. “I do trust you Sherlock…more than anyone.”

            “Good,” Sherlock’s mouth twitched in his approximation of a smile. “So if I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?”

            John shrugs. “Sure. Fire away.”

            He knows he’ll do anything for the man seated across for him. Killing or dying for his best mate is simple, so answering a question should be even easier. Right?

            “Alright then.” Sherlock clears his throat delicately. “What are you hiding from me?”

Wrong. His eyes must be as wide as saucers. He has waited for the day when Sherlock would finally figure out what he is but he did not expect the man to just ask outright. Sherlock would rather chew his own arms off than ask a question he didn’t know the answer to especially when it came to asking John.

            John splutters. The Wolf is clamoring to get away, to hide from the one person he can’t stand to lose, cowering behind the bars of his mental cage. How can he answer something like that? Does Sherlock already know? What will he do if he finds out John is a freak? Will he kick John out? Will he call Mycroft and have John taken away?

            He hears Sherlock calling his name in the distance but all John can focus on is the Wolf panting and whining, just as conflicted as John is. His leg starts to throb, pain as sharp as a blade spreading through his body. The Wolf is begging to be set free despite the afternoon sun gleaming through the flat’s windows. John screams at it to stay put, to just stop and be quiet so he can bloody think. The Wolf stills.

            “John! John, can you hear me?” Sherlock’s voice is deep and soothing despite the underlying panic.

            When John opens his eyes he’s kneeling on the floor, clutching at his head with such a tight grip that his fingers are beginning to ache. Sherlock is crouching beside him with an arm outstretched, unsure if his touch would be welcome at this point. The Wolf whines pathetically, clamoring for Sherlock’s long fingers to sooth through his hair. John denies it by standing up on shaky legs.

            “Sorry about that.”

            Sherlock stands also, scrutinizing him with his ever-so-clever eyes, and for once John can’t handle it.

            “Don’t!” He snaps. “Don’t stand there and deduce me. I’m not an experiment!”

            “No you’re not, but you are my friend John. So if you won’t tell me what’s wrong then I’ll have to figure it out for myself.” Sherlock’s tone is far from threatening, but his words carry a weight that scares John to pieces.

            “I can’t tell you,” John whispers. He’s tired, too tired to deal with this, but he owes Sherlock the truth even if it ruins whatever peace John has built here.

            “Whatever secret it is that you’re keeping from me just reduced you to a panic attack. Therefore it has to be something you never intended for me to find out or anybody else going by that severe reaction. Your leg started twitching just before your face scrunched up in pain and–“

            The Wolf snarls as John screams, “I’m a freak! Alright? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

            “John, I–“

            “I’m a werewolf.” He interrupts. He says it quick, like ripping off a bandage, but the flinch that Sherlock fails to hide is enough. His traitorous eyes well up with tears as the Wolf begins to howl in misery. The one man he can’t stand to lose is looking at him with something akin to fear. As if John would ever hurt Sherlock. He’d rather die.

            And so he does. John bolts from the flat, running down Baker Street as his heart shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story was inspired by Mark Twain with the following quote:  
> "Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody."


End file.
